


The Pain of Victory

by dammitol (TightTights)



Category: Divinity: Original Sin 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Divinity: Original Sin - Freeform, Gen, Godwoken, Halloween, Insects, POV Second Person, Quest idea, Source, SpookyScaryDOS2, mixed universe, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TightTights/pseuds/dammitol
Summary: It's a dark and stormy night, and a horrible one to have a curse as you and your companions find yourselves stranded in the Phantom Forest...Fic inspired by @LarianStudios #SpookyScaryDOS2 prompt!





	The Pain of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, D:OS Halloweeners! 
> 
> I want to note, and perhaps warn, that this fic idea takes **a lot** of liberties with the, uh, _source_ here. A lot. I wanted to pay homage to the first OS, and thus the finished product became something of an amalgamation of both DOS and DOS2. A "what if" scenario with a mid-length quest feel to it. 
> 
> And while I love all the characters, this fic only has room to star the Red Prince and Ifan. For the fun of writing them, and for the sake of keeping things simple. 
> 
> Enjoy! Boo if you must!

The cart you are seated in jolts, and not for the first time does a spurt of mud fly up from the wagon wheel, spattering your person.

“Are you _trying_ to hit every pothole on this Godsforsaken road?”

The Red Prince cranes his neck over the load of crates and paddings of straw filling the majority of space the cart, snarling as he addresses the dwarven driver. The latter’s white whiskers and nose, blotchy with age, stick out from under a tawny cloak. He grunts and shrugs his shoulders.

“Talkative one, isn’t he?” the Red Prince says.

“We didn’t pay mister Torn for conversation,” Ifan remarks, nodding his chin to the driver.

The Red Prince huffs, turning back around. “Be a Prince! Father a dragon! Slay a God! Apparently it all amounts to nothing seeing as we are once again forced to travel like so many flea-ridden vagabonds that infest this dreary wilderness. Whose brilliant idea was this again?”

“I believe you were outnumbered when it came to a vote between your suggestion of renting a roank, or hitching a ride like this. You know, like normal people do?” Ifan retorts.

“Right. _Normal._ Slow, filthy, cramped, and tedious you mean. Honestly, it frightens me what commoners consider _normal._ It’s why democracy is a farce.” He sobers, relaxing into the hay at his back. “But I suppose there’s some rustic charm even I can appreciate, and if I must be generous. Yet the smell and ugh, constant _itch_ conjures up one too many memories of my temporary distress at the hands of Lucian’s lackeys.”

“I won’t argue there,” Ifan answers, chuckling as he nestles further into the soft hay.

You smile at the banter between your companions, rolling your head back into the straw and giving your tired shoulders some reprieve.

You had hoped to make it through the Phantom Forest before nightfall. Detours around downed trees delayed passage, as well as your choice to haggle with steel instead of gold to persuade a bridge troll dashed those hopes like so much fresh eggs on a kitchen floor. Now, rolling black clouds rumble and grumble overhead as the daylight wanes, and leaves sigh as a heavy wind blusters past. Rain has not yet burst forth, but the first flashes of lightning blink through the black sky. Despite the classically ominous circumstances, you let the present calm wash over you, and purge you of your worries.

That is, until another jolt jostles the unruly cart, rattling you and your companions like marbles in a tinderbox.

“Godsdamn it-!” the Red Prince starts, but is cut off when a clap of thunder rips through the tangle of surrounding forest. The two draft horses whinny and rear up.

“Whoa! Whoa there!” the driver calls to the animals, yanking hard on the reins. But his voice is drowned out by a sudden torrent of rain choosing that instant to burst from the clouds. Within seconds, the rain soaks every inch of earth in a deluge.

The horses continue to buck and stamp until another flash, and another peal crashes through the sky. The driver howls in terror as the horses break into a panicked gallop, the reins snapping loose from the driver’s stubby grasp.

“Hang on!” you shout, but it’s all you and your companions can do to keep from being flung from the wayward cart as it thunders down the craggy road. Your pulse leaps when you hear the telltale snap and crack of wood giving way under the stress. After a hard bounce, then another, the cart buckles, then snaps in two. Crates of food and raw material fly and shatter on the road, sending their cargo and threads of straw in every conceivable direction. The horses and driver break loose, dragging the driver on a mere two wheels as they disappear into the curtains of downpour.

The latter half of cart, meanwhile, tumbles and spins, its own pair of wheels breaking apart in a shower of splinters like stale bread, and casting off its occupants as violently as its goods. Your cheek collides hard with the road, the fresh mud only just cushioning your fall. Blackness grips you in an instant.

When the light next creeps into your vision, and your faculties return, you decline to move even a muscle as you wait for the shock and noise to fade into the rush of rain. The deluge continues to pound against your back, and you wince as a sharp jab erupts in your ribs when you make motion to push yourself up. As your fingers sink into the slimy earth, you struggle to push up; a heaviness weighs on your back and shoulders as teeter back on your knees. You figure the blow to your head might have been a little more severe than you thought, but the sensation passes in a few blinks.

“Everyone alright?” you ask, glancing around at your companions as you stand.

“Roughed up, but nothing broken. You?” Ifan shouts over the rain, suppressing a grimace as he lifts himself up and straightens.

You lean, checking the strength of each of your legs. Aside from the lingering throb in your ribs, you nod to him.

“Perfectly  _normal!_ ” the Red Prince spits, rising, swiping off large globs of mud from his breastplate. “You want to know why lizards employ roanks? Partly because a little thunder doesn’t spook a sixty-tonne animal. But what do I know?”

“Listen, right now we need to find some shelter from this storm. If memory serves, these woods have an unsavory history, and this land borders on orc territory. We better get moving, and fast,” Ifan says.

“Few things could be worse,” the Red Prince says, making a face as he spits and wipes a stripe of mud from his lip.

“Hopefully our driver fares better. Let’s go,” you say.

Mud squishes and squelches beneath your feet as you proceed on the lonely road, its myriad trenches and craters rapidly filling with brown water. The terrible storm abates as swiftly as it descended, however, as the evening sun disappears into night. With some dry wood and tar from your pack, and a little pyrokinetic magic, you create a rudimentary torch. As you raise the torch above you, gray eddies of mist rise and swirl around your legs.

Jagged splinters and straw evidence the stricken cart’s chaotic path through the wood. The trail of destruction goes cold at a fork, denoted with a solitary lamp marking the split in the road.

“We’ve hardly walked a few steps and I am exhausted,” the Red Prince says. “And my back itches.”

You, too, cannot shake the sensation of heaviness in your gait. "I feel it, too. Strange," Ifan adds, each step trudging through the sticky mud. Suddenly, he stops, his attention fixed forward. “Hold!” he says. “To the right. Who’s there!”

You follow his gaze to a shadow creeping from the mist. At first you think it some sort of goblin, but as it lumbers closer into the light of your torch, you see it is a woman, though you can scarcely describe her as human. She limps toward you in a deep hunch.

“She’s-!” Ifan starts as the torchlight hits her ghoulish face. You hand falls to the hilt of the weapon at your side. A pale, rosy flower is tucked behind her ear, its vibrancy a stark contrast to her haggard condition. Her frazzled, white-streaked mop of hair droops about her sunken cheeks, and her cloudy eyes are crusted and dark. Spidery wrinkles branch out from her thin, chapped lips. It’s a face of one drained of Source, and it is the kind of face you hoped to never see again.

“Impossible! Could this be the Order? Here?” the Red Prince says.

The woman stops, and with slow, painful effort, she lifts her chin and glances at you and your companions. Some semblance of life still lingers within her as she croaks out, “Turn-,” she starts, swallowing with difficulty. “Back.”

“What rogue band of Magisters must have done this to her?” Ifan says. “Don’t they know Lucian is dead, for good?” He addresses the woman, saying, “Madam, who has done this to you? Where do you hail from?”

Suddenly, she tenses, but then, her cracked lips quiver into a smile-- a smile disconcerting in its serenity. “Gods!” she breathes. “Save me!”

A fit of coughing wracks her frail frame. She pitches forward, and with alarm you drop the torch and rush to her. You support her by the shoulders as she spasms and seizes, her horrid face contorting in pain and what you fear are the throes of imminent death. Her throat closes on a choked gasp, and her muscles tighten under your grip. Her shriveled head slumps forward, her glossy eyes glazed over in final respite.

You snatch your hands back when her flesh bubbles and undulates. You only just leap back from her when then, in a burst of Source, her body explodes into a heap of blood, bone, and internal organs. The flower, once behind her ear, floats to the ground beside her remains.

No words are exchanged for a brief moment as the horror of what just occurred sinks in. The Red Prince is the one to break it when he clears his throat and says, “My, this turned into a dreadful little departure in a hurry.”

As you lower yourself to examine the mess, Ifan says, “We must try to ask her what happened.” Though your doubts of success are great, you nod and close your eyes. Inhaling sharply, you send out your spirit as you release your breath. Your soul touches the Hall of Echoes, and drawing back just as it skims off its cool energy, taking it back into your mind. Your vision fills with the telltale greenish hue of Source. You look up, expecting to see the poor, albeit healthier-looking shade of the dead woman at your feet.

“Good Gods! What is that!” you exclaim. To your horror, you do not see any trace of the woman. Instead, you are faced with a spectral insect, a ghostly assassin bug the size of a barrel, with a horrifyingly long and pointy proboscis and a fat belly stuffed with Source. It chitters viciously at you, then scuttles back down the road in the direction the woman appeared with stunning alacrity.

“On your back!” Ifan says. He blanches as his eyes move to the Red Prince. “On all our backs!”

You turn sharply toward your companions, whose eyes too froth with the gift of Spirit Vision. You stifle a wave of nausea when you spot more netherworldly creatures on the backs of your companions, each with their spindly legs clutching about their torsos. Worse, their phantom proboscises are lodged deep within their spines. With trepidation, you glance downward at your own body, and confirm the presence of insect legs binding you to one such vile creature. A cold jab in your spine makes you shiver.

“Oh it’s... _disgusting!_ ” the Red Prince shouts, grasping in futility at the creature’s legs.

“Let me try removing it,” Ifan says. The Red Prince hesitates, then nods his assent, and Ifan extends his hand toward the creature at his back. Source from the insect begins to flow to him.

Almost immediately, the Red Prince gasps and bowls over. He clutches his head and cries out, “Stop!”

Stunned by the outburst, you look to Ifan, who has yet to cancel the vampirism ritual. With panic rising in his voice, the Red Prince screws his eyes shut and pleads, “For the love of the Seven, stop!”

You shout, “Ifan!”

As though snapping out from a deep trance, he shakes his head, then immediately drops his hand, and the flow of Source stops. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

The Red Prince recovers his faculties with a groan, saying, “Gods it’s...it’s so painful! Worse than any Source drain I’ve ever felt! Like my skin is blistering, and as though you’re sucking out my brain through a pipe.” He shoots Ifan a harrowing look. “Why didn’t you _stop_ , dog man?”

“I-...” Ifan starts, apprehension in his features. “I’m sorry. We better not try that again. I think this creature, whatever it is, is demanding Source. For a moment there, it felt like the overwhelming hunger of the Gods.”

“Right. And I don’t think it liked having its meal stolen away, so it clamped down on me just as hard. Like a stubborn tick,” the Red Prince says.

“We have to remove them somehow,” you say. You wince as an ill-remembered twist in your gut confirms Ifan’s words. You rouse your willpower to tamp down the ensuing fear and desperation of starvation. You frown at the exploded corpse nearby and say, “We should investigate where she came from.”

Your companions agree without question. Collecting your torch, you head right at the fork in the road, and through the misty woods. Soon, you happen across a string of lampposts lighting the way, and the trees and untamed brush thin out as you spot your first glimpse of a tall wooden gate, and thatched rooftops nestled beyond in a misty, sodden glen.

"Lucian’s beard, they're everywhere,” Ifan remarks as you come across the throng of stricken citizens of the village, each with a ghostly assassin bug latched onto their backs, and each villager in various stages of having their Source sucked out. Their waning essence, and the heaviness of their gluttonous hitchhikers is evident in their faces, and in their leaning postures- some slight, some nearly bent over completely.

You step over a split plank of wood, and a few paces further, you spot the very same whiskered dwarf and his two horses, the latter still lashed to the front half of the ruined cart. The animals have calmed considerably, stamping and grazing on a patch of wet grass. The dwarf, on the other hand, paces restlessly about the horses in apparent distress.

While you are relieved that the dwarf and animals survived, that same relief sinks like a stone into your stomach as you observe each of them sporting their own parasite.

“Hail,” you say to the dwarf as you approach him.

“You,” he grinds out. He shakes his head. He says, throaty and gruff, “Guess you’ll be wantin’ a refund, then?”

“On the contrary,” you say. “Looks like you’re going to need the coin more than we will.”

“Aye. Aye,” Torn says, despair hanging in his voice. “I appreciate your mercy, given our mutual plight. Damned beasts!” He swats one of the horses on its flank, the animal whinnying in surprise. “I’ll probably have to sell one of ‘em for enough to get to Cyseal. But would you look at the place?” He leans in to say, “I haven’t seen one person who doesn’t look like death warmed over!”

“So we’ve noticed,” the Red Prince says.

Your attention turns when a human villager stops short next to you, and sweeps his gaze over you and your companions. He straightens from his stooped posture, and from under his straw hat, sizes you up from toe to helm. The insect on his back waves its antennae, but the man is clearly unaware of its presence. He says, “You best turn around, travellers. A nasty plague has been ravagin’ our town for months. You stay long enough, you’re sure to catch it, too.”

“Plague!” Torn gasps, staggering backward and covering his mouth with a corner of his hood.

“Poor souls don’t even know it,” the Red Prince mutters to Ifan.

Ifan replies, “Their ignorance may be the only blessing.”

Addressing the villager, you say, “Thanks for the warning, stranger, but we met one of your neighbors up the road and saw its effects for ourselves. We came here to investigate.”

The man blinks. “Who? Who did you see?”

You answer, “A sickly waif of a woman. Sandy hair, and a flower tucked behind her ear.”

“Sarabelle? Is she with you?” he asks.

“She,” you start, glancing to your companions. “She...succumbed.”

The man’s face falls. He clicks his tongue, saying, “Oh, Sara. Her mother will be devastated. Poor, dear girl. She must have been driven mad with the fever.” He tosses an accusing look. “You say you are here to investigate? But you couldn’t help her, could you? I’m tellin’ you, leave while you can. If you catch it, you won’t be able to. The plague claims anyone who ventures away too far.”

“I’m afraid we are _showing_ the symptoms already,” the Red Prince starts, his commanding tone tempering the irritation showing on his face. “We’re here to stop this- whatever or whoever is causing your ‘plague’, as you say. You will share with us everything you know about it.”

“We suspect Source is behind it,” Ifan says. He catches himself, saying, “Er, if you’ll pardon my choice of words....”

“Source? Pah!” the man says, scowling. With a throaty, wet intake of air, he hocks a gob of spit into the grass. “You want to know what we know, and we already know it was Sourcery that brought this plague upon us. If only our dull, bleedin’ heart of a mayor hadn’t taken in a Sourcerer. An orc no less.”

You say, “Pardon? Did you say your mayor is housing an orc Sourcerer?” you ask.

The man points, the spectral creature on his back twitching its antennae at the motion. “Aye. Our King Shit, Mayor Shelton. Lives up there on the rise. We used to be beset by orc raids, and he thought he was bein’ clever by shakin’ up with the orc lass.”

“The orc is a she? And his lover? Ambitious indeed,” Ifan remarks.

“The orcs stopped pesterin’ us after that, but only because we traded their curse for an even fouler one.”

“You think she is the cause of this...affliction?” the Red Prince asks.

“I do. Life was dandy until she left town for a spell, Gods know why. But when she returned, she wasn’t the same. Off, and not just orc-off. She must have displeased some demon or witch on the road, or whoever their orc God is. Vrongeer? Vorjeer?”

“Vrogir. What happened to her?”

“Aye that’s the one. The mayor took her back in and bloody married her, the smitten fool. That’s when we all started fallin’ ill. Caught the curse straight from the heart of the Void itself! Infected all of us with it! I stake my life on it!”

You glance away from the man and his tirade and up to the larger mayoral house on the rise. “I think we ought to have a word with Mayor Shelton.”

“An obvious conclusion, and _tout de suite_ ,” the Red Prince says.

The villager scoffs. “Reason may not do you much good, strangers. Gods know we’ve tried. We’ve implored him to send for help. Torches and pitchforks would be next, if any of us had the strength to carry ‘em, and if the plague’s course didn’t hasten upon agitators. We’re all prisoners, sentenced to live and die here, but he doesn’t give one whit!”

“Thank you for the information,” you say. “We shall do what we can.”

“Suit yourself, but you’ll see. Welcome to Hunter’s Edge!” The man leans back over, scoffing and muttering under his breath as he takes his leave, the insect on his back jiggling with the motion.

The dwarf says, “I ain’t stickin’ around to catch this here plague! I thank you for your charity, but I’m afraid this is where our fates diverge!”

He moves to untie one of the horses, but you step in front of him. He gives you an affronted look as you say, “Listen, we’re going to cure this.” You glance at the creature feeding at his spine, fighting the distraction of its revolting mandibles. “You just have to promise me to stay within the town limits until we do.”

“What? Why? And why should I trust you?”

You say, “Believe us or not, but if you have the plague already, you can trust you won’t make it far. Don’t risk it. Stay here until we’re done investigating.”

You hope your appeal to his reason hits the mark, but chance has it sail past him. “Bah!” he answers. “You can’t force me. But best of luck to you!”

He shoves past you, and attempts to climb up on one of the horses. Ifan’s attention darts to one of the horses as it whinnies and grunts. The other responds with a neigh and a snort. Then, you see a smile cross Ifan’s lips. The horses each snort and lie down with legs tucked under their bellies.

The dwarf steps back from them. “What are you two doing?” he says, stamping his feet. “Get up, you worthless mules!”

Ifan crosses his arms and says, “You should speak more kindly to them They’re worried for you, and feel guilty about your cart. They don’t want to be responsible for your life as well.”

“What?” The dwarf regards him, then his horses, his mouth agape. One of the horses nods vigorously.

“I’ve got an ear for these things,” Ifan explains.

At this, the dwarf’s whiskered face screws up, and he rushes to hug the animals. “Oh! My dear, sweet nags!” he sobs. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay, I’ll stay! And I’d _ne'er_ sell one o’ you! Ne'er!”

The Red Prince snorts, stepping past you and the blubbering dwarf. “Are we about finished?” he tosses over his shoulder.

You and your companions make haste along through the town square, past it’s large stone fountain, and across a wide bridge. A hulking tavern passes you on the left, as well as a distillery that has seen better days. At the foot of the rise, you catch a better view of the Mayor’s house, a two-storey mansion looking out over the town below. A beaten trail curls and curves up to its polished stone doorstep and timbered door.

You knock. After a pause, the latch releases, and the door pops open just a crack.

A clean-shaven man, with brown hair to his chin and crow’s feet at his temples, peers at you through the cracked doorway. “Yes?”

“Mayor Shelton?” you ask.

“Speaking. What can I do for you strangers?”

You reply, “We’re travellers. We were just passing by when we were waylaid by the passing storm, and we seem to have contracted the plague afflicting your village. We would like to-, could you please open the door?”

The door creaks as Shelton pulls it back, though not fully enough to let you inside. Nonetheless, you are able to see no trace of any affliction on him. He is healthy and vibrant, unmarred unlike his townspeople. More telling is the lack of a parasite latched to his back.

“How is it that you have avoided the plague?” Ifan blurts, his eyes narrowing to slits.

Shelton regards him, and shrugs. “I don’t go out much these days.”

Ifan growls. “You cannot fool us.”

“Pardon?” Shelton says, clutching a hand to his breast.

Ifan presses, “We’ve seen what’s on the backs of these people, and it’s the same that are on ours. What are they? Where do they come from?” He steps past you to seize the edge of the door.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Shelton says, pulling against Ifan’s iron grip without success. He frowns. “Are you Sourcerers?”

“Liar,” Ifan spits. “You know what these are. Tell us!”

“What _what_ are?” Shelton replies to him, exasperation tinging his voice.

“These Source-sucking insects on everyone’s back! Except yours.”

“Insects?” Shelton turns to you. “Excuse me, but is your friend mad? Has the fever set in so soon?”

“Ifan,” you say. He looks at you with a heavy frown, but releases the door.

“Thank you!” Shelton says.

The Red Prince, however, picks this moment to say, “Pray tell us, then, where is your orc paramour? She is a Sourcerer, is she not?”

The hapless expression on Shelton’s face recedes into a stony expression. “My _wife_ , lizard. She is _dead!_ ” He inhales deeply. Cooly, he says, “I’ve had quite enough of this, and I do not appreciate you marching into my town with your insults and ludicrous accusations. I don’t need any Sourcerers intimidating me nor my already beleaguered people. If you have the plague, then I am sorry for your plight, and I truly mean that. All I can offer you is my welcome in living out the rest of your lives here. They may yet be long, and your deaths swift and painless.”

“I hope you don't put that in the travel brochure,” the Red Prince says wryly.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I am very busy!” Shelton spits.

“Thank you for your time,” you say as the door slams in your face.

“He knows what’s going on,” Ifan says. “His sweat has the smell of a liar.”

“There has to be another lead we can look for,” you say, turning from the door. As you finish your thought, a familiar chittering greets your ear. You turn sharply, your attention falling on a nearby thorn bush as you home in on the noise.

“You speak its name, and it appears,” the Red Prince observes. He and Ifan crouch behind you as you sneak with silent steps, and crane your neck around the bush in search the culprit. You spot its luminous green body immediately against the nighttime shadows: a loose spectral bug, its belly distended with its Source meal. “Perhaps the same one from earlier,” you remark. “Poor woman.”

The insect notices you and startles. With a panicked flutter of gangly limbs, it scuttles from the mansion and into a patch of wild brush.

“Follow it!” the Red Prince says, darting ahead as he bounds into the dark over the tangle of grass and shrubs. You catch up just barely, following the Red Prince by ear more than by sight as he cuts a path through the thicket. The land beneath your feet gently slopes down, and the tangles of thorny shrubs thin into soft meadow.

The Red Prince slows. You see him clearly now as you and Ifan catch up to him. Just ahead, you spot a lone lantern casting a gloomy orange glow over a foundation of stone nestled in the grass, atop which a wide, shattered structure rests. Its roof is caved in as though struck by a giant mace, and much of the wood that is standing is blackened and charred.

“Alarmingly light of foot for such a fat creature,” the Red Prince says, his chest heaving with exertion.

"An old granary?" you remark, laboring to catch your breath as well.

Ifan, appearing no worse for wear, remarks, “Looks like a fire destroyed it quite some time ago,” Ifan says, stooping to run his fingers through the soil at his feet.

The chittering starts again, and you freeze. You creep up to the gaping doorway, and peer inside. Within the dark, debris-littered space, there is not one, but three insects, all stuffed to bursting. They face one another, tapping their antennae about, and wobbling to and fro with their bulk-- but little else.

“Are they waiting for something?” you whisper to your companions.

“We should destroy them while they are loose,” Ifan says.

You all perk up in alarm when you hear a distant-yet-unmistakable rustle of grass. “Someone’s coming!” you say. You spot a nearby heap of planks and debri just outside the door. “There!” you hiss.

Yet as soon as you and your companions dash for the hiding spot, a wave of fatigue crashes over you, and you only just maintain the balance on your legs as you stumble forward. You wheeze with the sudden sensation of having the breath being pushed from your lungs. However, you soon feel the firm grip of your companions under your arms, and they carry you to safety. Not for the first time since you met them, an overwhelming sense of gratitude for your friends fills your thoughts.

As you crouch behind the debris, you vigorously shake of your head and cast off the spell of fatigue. For now.

“I knew it,” Ifan hisses. 

You follow Ifan’s keen eye as he catches sight, before you do, of a figure of a man emerging from the grass. As the man steps closer to the light of the solitary lantern, you positively identify him as Mayor Shelton. Ifan scowls, and lurches with an obvious desire to throttle the man, but the Red Prince claps a hand on his shoulder.

“I feel the same way,” the Red Prince whispers. “But we’ll deal with him as we see fit after we find out what he’s doing.”

Shelton steps up into the granary, and you hear him gush: “Oh, _three_ of you this evening? How lovely. She will be most delighted.”

A moaning creak reaches your ear, followed by a loud clang that rings out in the quiet night. Then, silence.

You creep out from hiding and approach the doorway. Mayor Shelton and the three bloated insects are nowhere to be seen. You continue to creep inside, eyes and ears attuned and alert for clues.

“I’ve spotted something,” Ifan calls out. He points to the outline of a hatch, obscured by a thin layer of soot. There is a small padlock keeping it shut tight. With a deft hand and a lockpick, you persuade the bolt to give. With a heave, you prop open the hatch.

You reel as the unmistakable stench of rot assaults your senses, its potency choking you just as thoroughly as the parasite on your back.

The Red Prince groans with disgust, covering his nose with a hand. “Once again, dear friends, I am struck by the sheer madness of our adventures together, and how this sort of thing has become a rather typical day for us,” he says, swallowing down no small measure of bile. “So, needless to say, I’m as ready as you are.”

Ifan chuckles at the remark, and you smile, despite the stench permeating every square inch of soft flesh inside your nose.

Dust and cobwebs clutter the narrow, brick-lined shaft under the hatch. The ladder down creaks, a bit too loudly for your liking as you and your companions descend behind you. You did not think it possible, but the stench worsens as you go.

“Some kind of larder?” you guess as your feet touch the stone flooring at the bottom of your descent. Weak candlelight illuminates the musty antechamber, and you catch sight of barrels and bags brimming with rotten vegetables and desiccated fish. Mummified meat and skins hang from racks dangling from the ceiling

“How was all this food forgotten about?” you ask.

“Explains the overwhelming stench at least,” the Red Prince says, hand still firmly pressed across his nostrils.

“I don’t know about that. Something else is off about this,” Ifan says.

You approach a decrepit, wooden double door barring the chamber ahead. Its planks seem as neglected and decayed as every other shred of organic material in the space. A hole in the wood allows you to peek through to the other side, where you spy butchers tables, racks of withered garlic and basil, and bulging sacks of salt.

Then, your eye falls upon a skull. Then two more. Then a scatter of limbs, ribs, and skulls. Then, a veritable heap of bones.

“My darling. We have a feast for you tonight,” you hear from the other side of the door. Shelton’s voice bounces through the stone walls of the larder, and it’s then you spot him, and with him at his side are the three fattened insects. He addresses something just ahead of him, and that’s when you see... _it._

Your jaw drops. An undulating, writhing trunk of olive green flesh sits rooted like an oak to a mound of bones and mummified humanoid bodies. The massive trunk forms the lower half of the monstrosity, the upper taking the shape of a female orc, her scaled, bull-like horns also abnormally large. Her belly, ribs, and cheeks however are gaunt and sunken, making her appear like some horned, grotesque vulture atop a nest of carrion.

Her raspy voice replies: “Three?”

Shelton answers, “No need to worry, my sweet. I just learned that we have acquired three more additions to our pen. Now eat up.”

“What in blazes is happening in there?” the Red Prince whispers to you.

You can barely muster a reply when you observe the orcish abomination loosen it jaw, and with a wide yawn she drains the collected Source from not one, but all three of the phantom insects at once. Their Source stream into her yawning mouth as they writhe, and, when the feeding is complete, burst into puddles of Source residue. The orc’s cheeks and belly balloon to a chubby fullness.

“We’ve found our orc Sourceress,” you finally say, pulling back from the door. “Whatever semblance is left of her.”

The Red Prince nudges you aside and peers through, as you had. “Good Gods!” he says, reeling. He allows Ifan his turn.

Shelton’s voice rings out again as he says, “There, my dear. You look better than you have in ages. And do not fret. Those three additions? A jackpot that wandered right onto our doorstep.”

“Oh?”

“I believe they are all Sourcerers. Even just one could keep your hunger at bay for weeks.”

“Sourcerers?” the voice croaks.

“Yes. Though they are a rather intimidating trio, and the fact they they can see your vessels complicates things. But it’s no bother. They are bound to you like the rest.”

“They can see them? Bring them Bring the Sourcerers to me. I wish to have audience,” she replies.

“Dear, I don’t think-,”

“Bring them to me! Immediately!”

“I-I will see what I can do. Mind, they are terribly cross with having been caught.”

“I’ve heard enough,” you hear Ifan say. Before you can think to stop him, he kicks in the door, and the weak wood splits and crumbles away under the force of his boot. “You wish to have an audience?” he shouts to the creature as he steps inside. Beside him, in a blaze of red light, Afrit materializes from its astral plane, its upper lip quivering as it growls.

“You?” Shelton says, reeling.

“Yes, us. You really are rather dim, aren’t you? You think we’d just sit on our laurels and accept being stuck here in this backwoods shithole, awaiting our slaughter?” the Red Prince says, unsheathing his weapon as he steps through the threshold after Ifan. “Now that you’ve been caught with hands as red as my own, it’s time you coughed up an explanation for this, this nightmarish scheme.”

“Ah, Sourcerers!” the terrible creature says. “But you are no mere Sourcerers, are you? You were touched by the Gods. You were Godwoken. Like I was.”

You reel. “You? You were chosen?”

“Darling, former Godwoken or not, there is no need to converse with your food. It makes no sense,” Shelton says.

The orc creature pays him no attention as she smiles. However, there is no mirth in her eyes as her yellowed fangs protrude from her bottom lip. “Vrogir does not merely choose. He demands, with flesh and blood. He dragged me to the Hall of Echoes, where he peeled the skin from my muscles like skin from a grape, telling me I must suffer, and that I must inflict even greater suffering to ascend. And as his champion, he taught me the truth: that all victory is rooted in pain. Of all the Gods, only Vrogir truly understands this. In his name, I devoured all the Source he could ever want as I fought and killed my way toward the Wellspring. I reveled in it.”

“ _Darling,_ enough!” Shelton interjects in admonishment.

“We did not encounter you at in the Temple,” you remark.

She answers, “No. I was too late. You and the Order destroyed the Wellspring before my ship could reach the Nameless Island’s shores. Because of you, Vrogir perished within me. I felt his feral, blind rage. And then... _nothing_. Nothing, except his desperate, maddening hunger!” she says.

You glance between your comrades. To the orc you say, “His hunger for Source?” you say.

"You know my pain, Godwoken. You felt it, too, did you not? The wrenching in your belly for just a drop of Source! Every moment you were not feeding, you were starving. Your Gods took their hunger with them when they tore out from your bodies. But Vrogir never left me. While all trace of his consciousness perished within me, his hunger but remained! Hunger is all that remains!”

“You poor creature,” the Red Prince says.

“Poor creature?” Ifan says, scoffing. He points to the orc, “So instead of searching for help, you believe it’s justified to make an entire town suffer because of your own misfortune? You are no Godwoken. You are little more than a demon now.”

“Really, what is the point of all this, dearheart?” Shelton says. “You are causing yourself needless distress.”

She says, “Victory is rooted in pain. I must have my victory over this eternal hunger. You must cut my flesh, and spill my blood. Grant me the victory of death.”

“What! No!” Shelton cries out.

“You heard her,” Ifan says, raising his weapon.

“Don’t have to ask twice,” the Red Prince says, readying his own stance.

“Wait! Gronie, what about us?” Shelton pleads.

She answers, “The Groneera you loved died with her God. You knew this the first time my hunger manifested in these vile creatures. You knew when we made the first victim appear to be an accident. And again when you imprisoned me here.”

“But...but my love!”

“There is no purpose in forcing this to continue,” you say to him.

Ifan adds, “If you love her, you will allow her the dignity of the death she asks for, and an end to her suffering. We do know her hunger. And an eternity of it is something I do not wish upon any creature.”

“Purpose!” Shelton repeats, spitting out the word like a bitter poison. He snarls and bares his teeth, a sudden animosity deepening every wrinkle of his face. “Oh, but there is a purpose here, you simpering morons.”

Suddenly, the flesh recedes from Shelton’s face like fire scouring away wallpaper, revealing his true nature.

“Shelton!” Groneera cries.

Shelton says to her, “Forgive me for the deception, my pretty lady, but trust when I say that I love you even more the way you are now. With every feeding, you grow more powerful and beautiful than you ever were!”

Horror crosses her face. “How?”

“While you were gone, I entered into my own pact with hallowed forces, ones greater than that of a starving God-traitor. You spared me as one of your cattle out of affection, else you would have discovered it. But I can offer you something better, darling. Have your feeders kill these pathetic champions and consume the Source. _Their_ pain can be your victory. You will earn favor with the God King, and as his loyal servant, your feeders could span the entire world! You could sup to your heart’s content! You’ll never feel hungry again!”

Groneera seems to hesitate. “Do not listen to him,” you say to her. “At least Vrogir’s version of suffering had _some_ sense of purpose, if cruel and heavy-handed. As a means to achieve something greater. But for the God King, suffering _is_ the victory. The only thing guaranteed is that your appetite will become as great as the Void.”

“It-it’s so painful,” Groneera moans. “I need some. Just a little!” The fat in her cheeks and belly recede, her hunger growing ever more apparent. The bones beneath her shift, and three more newly formed insects worm their way out of the mass.

The deathly grin of Shelton’s skull seems to dazzle as he says, “Good girl. Feast on them!”

“Ugh!” she growls. Her fanged maw gapes open as it did before. You stagger to your knees as the insect on your back contracts its hold, and its proboscis plunges into the very depth of your being. Your skin burns, and your head feels as though it will pop off your spine. What little glimpse you can manage of your comrades informs you that they share your fate.

“Stop!” you croak out through your clenched teeth. Streams of Source flow from the insects on your backs and into her gaping maw.

But suddenly, mercifully, she flinches, and her jaw snaps shut.  She grimaces.

“What is the matter!” Shelton says. “Keep going!”

The hold on you loosens. You spot the glimmer of tears in the corners of her eyes.

“I loved you,” she says.

Shelton scoffs. “You said it yourself. The woman who loved me died on that ship to the Nameless Isle. But do as I say, and the one man who loved you will _never_ die!”

“No!” she shrieks.

“Fine!” Shelton says. He raises a bony hand, and at his call, skeletal soldiers rise from the bone pile. “Since it is too difficult, I will slay them for you myself. Then you may feast at your leisure, once you come back to your senses.”

“How did I not see it? When did you...Sourcerers! Aid me!”

You and your companions strike in a coordinated attack, well-practiced in your time travelling together. With vicious swipes of her clawed hands, Groneera tears apart the nearest of Shelton’s reinforcements, boosting your advantage. As you cut through the last of the foul necromancy holding together the last skeleton, you and your comrades surround Shelton. With your triumph imminent, he holds up his hands.

He says, “Foolish orc. If Vrogir had even half a brain, your kind would have ruled all of Rivellon.”

You strike out, your weapon cleaving Shelton’s chattering skull from his spine. It and his lifeless bones clatter to the ground.  Knowing - and feeling - that his antipathy still lingers, you inhale, your mind tapping against the Hall of Echoes once more. When your perception sharpens, there, rising from the heap, the former Mayor Shelton congeals out of green wisps of Source.

“When I return, it will be with the wrath of the God King at my back!” he spits.

“We can ensure that never happens,” the Red Prince retorts.

You consider ending Shelton’s miserable existence, and denying the God King one more lieutenant, or leaving him be. However, as you weigh your decision, Groneera’s gruff voice cuts through your thoughts: “You shall not return.”

His brow lifts in shock. “What?”

The three phantom insects burst free from the mound of bodies. “No! Stop!” Shelton shrieks as they surround and stab at him, their proboscises sinking into his legs and anchoring his spirit into place. The orc woman’s jaw unhinges again, falling open.

“Please! I’m sorry! _I’m sorry,_ you hear me!”

He pleads and begs, begs and pleads until the great vacuum overwhelms him, and Groneera consumes his Source, leaving only a few drops behind as the only evidence where he once stood.

Her jaw closes, its hinges clicking back into place. Once set, she addresses you. “Thank you, Godwoken. The pain must belong to us alone. Now, destroy me, and free yourselves, and our flock.”

You ache for her, as her voice is cold, devoid of neither glee nor sorrow, nor any discernable emotion. Your weapon is heavy in your hand as you poise it to deliver the killing blow. You take one last look at your companions, their pained expressions a mix pity and regret, mirroring your own.

Her flesh divides and cracks like the shell of an insect. As you carve her from the trunk of flesh, you expect blood, but are shocked when you find her mostly hollow, save for the barest puff of Source that billows and dissolves in the stagnant air. The insects on your backs seize, and, with a shrill whine, pop like balloons. The Source in their bellies splash onto the ground behind your feet. And in that instant, your shoulders lighten, and you feel much more like your natural self.

“What a sorry end,” the Red Prince says.

“We should check on the village,” Ifan says.

You agree, leaving the granary with all due haste, and reveling in the first lungful of fresh air as you and your companions travel back to Edge. Your walk is as silent and somber as the starlight twinkling between breaks in the clouds. As you come over the rise, you find the whole of the town stunned by the appearance of raw Source all about them. With no small measure of relief, you see no more insects, and no more sign of the ‘plague’ that beset them.

The villager with the straw hat, the man who warned you off before, approaches your group. “Hail, strangers!” A crowd soon gathers behind him. They encircle you, gawking as the man continues, “Are you responsible for this?”

“We’ve solved your plague problem,” you say simply.

“You are all quite welcome. You can thank us with horses and coin so that we may continue on our way,” the Red Prince says.

The man blinks at him, his brow knotted with confusion. “What of Mayor Shelton? Where is he?”

You relay - while sparing the gruesome details - of Mayor Shelton’s role in their plight, and that due to circumstances beyond your control, you were forced to permanently remove him from office.

“I bloody knew it!” the villager spits.

You and your companions express astonishment when, right on the spot, the man is elected as the new Mayor. He intends to grant you horses and coin, but although it vex the Red Prince, you defer your reward and instead ask that he gift a fresh cart and supplies to your dwarven driver, Torn.

Though the news endlessly delights the dwarf, you expect it when the Red Prince pulls you aside and says, “Truly?”

_Truly_ , you affirm. And when the new morning rises again, you trundle as before upon the unruly cart, and the town of Edge recedes behind you.  The cart shudders, and a fresh splatter of mud crests over the lip of the cart and smacks against your person.

You smile at Ifan when a string of curses erupts from the Red Prince.

“I suppose everything’s back to _normal_ , then?” Ifan teases, grinning as the Red Prince rolls his eyes, and sulks into the straw.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Have a Happy Halloween!


End file.
